


House Guest

by qwertysweetea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, British Politics, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, Friendship, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Minor England/France (Hetalia), Minor England/Spain (Hetalia), Recovery, References to Depression, Romantic Friendship, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertysweetea/pseuds/qwertysweetea
Summary: There is something nice about watching Arthur recover, bit-by-bit, slowly and thoroughly.AKA: Sometimes it's best to just let people cry it out[Human names used because it's nicer that way, @ me][Laptop declutter, Apr. 2020]
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), England/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	House Guest

Francis doesn’t know why he invites Arthur to stay with him. He likes to pretend it’s out of obligation or tradition but beyond that he’s as lost to his own reasoning as Arthur is.

His acceptance is short and dismissive. Like Francis, Arthur pretends it’s out of obligation.

They are both so set in their ways of pretending to still hate each other that it doesn’t occur to either of them that it might be because they like each other.

It’s been nearly two years since he finally cracked, and it’s been almost that since Arthur started looking like he was running off of whiskey, tobacco, and guilt. Things haven’t improved.

When he arrives at Francis’ door, it’s with a single carry-on bag and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. Francis can feel the dankness of his country clinging to his clothing; it’s so heavy on him that it’s almost sucking the cheer out of the air.

He shows him to his room and how to work the shower, and Arthur has to remind him that he’s nearly as old as him. It carries animosity but not his usual brand. It doesn’t reach his eyes. A shadow of what usually would have been; Arthur feels nothing and Francis finds that he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

.

It takes Arthur three days to stop complaining about the food; it only takes that short a time because it’s been months since Arthur has seen a proper meal, something that hasn’t been microwaved or mixed with boiling water, or covered in grease and bought at somewhere with dingy lighting at two in the morning. He knows that Arthur appreciates it, not verbally but in the adoration in his eyes when he eats, for the short time that it takes.

Arthur eats like his only opportunity is in five-minute slots between meetings. Once the complaining stops he slows down, and Francis notices he’s not nearly as hunched as he had been when he first arrived. If he still has stomach aches then they’re not nearly as bad because he doesn’t double up once he’s finished eating anymore either.

Little victories.

.

There is something nice about seeing Arthur recover, slowly and with little resistance, thoroughly.

It’s not something Francis ever thought he’d find satisfaction in but the satisfaction was there and so was Arthur: his shoulders starting to straighten, the floorboards creaking less and less in the early hours of the morning, a twenty-pack lasting longer than a day. His features looked less sunken and he was starting to get his wit back too, even if his tongue was still blunt for now.

.

Every now and then Arthur drinks more than he planned too – he’s become much better at handling his alcohol, Francis notices and tries to push back the sickening feeling that it has come with almost two years of abuse.

Somewhere between sober and it’s melancholy drunk counterpart he could almost be who he was back in the days before civil wars and revolutions, when they were full of ambition and ignorant confidence, when wars were numbed by adrenaline and the after-buzz took years to fade.

It is the first time he sees him laugh since his arrival – not snickered or huffed through insincerity but full-bodied and loud, and completely radiant. He looks younger. He looks happy, and it knocks the air out of Francis’ chest almost as quickly as the highlighter on his cheekbones and the slicked-back nature of his hair.

“Arthur, are you wearing make-up?” He tried to sound scandalised.

“I feel very Georgian.” He comments off-handily. “I used to let the ladies maids paint my face back then.” He shrugs, eyes flicking off “Sometimes.”

His lips were on Arthurs, and the other’s matched him with enthusiasm. Whiskey and wine faded into nothing against the strength of the crisp sea air in Arthur’s hair.

Arthur doesn’t want it to end; he tries to follow it back in and presses his body desperately into the other’s, and Francis tries to step back. Tries. It takes him three, maybe four attempts not to let his lips be reclaimed. It’s dangerous how easily he’s been sucked into Arthur’s need.

And God, Arthur really _needs_. He’s touch-starved and lovesick; it’s been decades, centuries even since anyone has shown him admiration and now the floodgates have opened his craving for it is clear through his drunken joy.

“Let’s have a cigarette, Arthur.” He needs to steady his nerves, so he takes Arthur by the hand and leads him to the kitchen. He lights up for both of them and tries to avoid looking at him as he smokes. The florescent lights glinting off the sheen on his cheeks and the smoke crawling from his smirking lips make it so very hard to do.

“Never thought I’d make you nervous, Francis.” Arthur purrs back but stays where he is.

Francis remembers once in his youth describing making love to Arthur as a slow-burn anxiety attack. Consuming, overwhelming and chaotic. He hopes that Arthur has forgotten but knows with the humour in Arthur’s eyes that he’s remembering how the words had fallen off of his lips.

.

It’s been two weeks. Neither of them really left the older traditions of long visits behind them. To stay with someone meant to stay for enough time to justify the week-long journey to get there, even if nowadays it only took a handful of hours.

Francis didn’t expect Arthur would be leaving any time soon and Arthur didn’t expect Francis would want him too.

Despite this understanding both were very much aware that the world was carrying on around them. When Francis is called into work there is an inconvenienced acceptance and Arthur distracts himself with anything he can.

A meal, mostly edible, waits for Francis when he gets home. It’s warm on the table next to a bottle of unopened wine and a takeaway menu.

Arthur, exhausted, is already in bed.

Francis eats the meal without microwaving it and throws the menu back in the draw unwanted.

.

He doesn’t tell Arthur that he plans to have Antonio around for a meal, and he doesn’t tell Antonio that Arthur is staying with him.

When they see each other, Antonio as he steps over the threshold and Arthur in the doorway of the kitchen with an empty bottle of milk in hand, both freeze with faces set like they had never stopped feeling bitter about falling in love with the other. The honesty reflected in their expressions made Francis realise it was as close to the full story he was ever going to get.

“I didn’t realise we were expecting guests,” in Arthur’s overtly dismissive way is overlapped by Antonio’s “I didn’t realise you had a house guest.”

“Francis, a word?” Arthur asks, turning back into the kitchen.

Antonio grabs Francis’ arms gently to stop him from following the Briton “You might have given me some warning Kirkland was staying with you, friend.”

Arthur is back at the kitchen door. Francis turns to him, ignoring Antonio with a smile “I will go get some milk.”

“Let me go.” Arthur jumps in, adding “please” as an afterthought.

“No. You should stay.”

“Francis, he is your friend. You should stay.”

It’s not lost on Antonio that Arthur is speaking to Francis in modern-day French so he would struggle to follow what was being said. Without giving Francis a chance to argue in return, Arthur passes both of them and leaves.

.

Arthur and Antonio haven’t spoken since the night it all happened. He didn’t tell him anything when they saw each other next; Antonio’s expression had spoken for itself. All concern. All disappointment. They were stuck in the same repetitive cycle of denial that he and Arthur were: love and loathing, concern and indifference. Francis could always trust Antonio to do the right thing when it counted. The rest they left in the past.

Regardless of their intentions, something tends to happen when Antonio and Arthur meet, seemingly beyond any feelings they have; it feeds off the other, turning the atmosphere around them electric. Francis has tried to understand it, but Antonio admits he doesn't understand it himself. Nature versus nurture, they were created to be rivals; too similar not to hate each other, too different not to like each other.

‘Being in a room with him is like being reminded of how unavoidably, painfully in love I am with him, and how much I resent him for it’, he had explained once. Francis had given him a sympathetic smile and poured him another drink.

He itches to pour him another now but he stays in the kitchen, back pressed into the door and arms crossed tight over his chest to remind himself to give them space. For once he realises that he isn’t scared for either of them, he is nervous for them both.

When he finally breaks and opens the door just enough to see through, he finds them both sat on the sofa, side-by-side with fingers laced together, muttering in an old language he doesn’t understand.

.

“How did he look?” Antonio didn’t want to ask but Francis understands why he does. Like himself, Antonio cares, more so than he wants to be seen to. The last time he saw Arthur was at the beginning when the process was being talked about like it was something novel – he had been a mess then too. It felt like such a long time ago now.

“American War of Independence.” When Francis says it, it sounds as though it takes little thought. He has thought about it a lot since Arthur arrived at his door.

Antonio winces as it’s said. He remembers vividly what that war did to him; most of them struggle to handle messing up, which seemed amplified in Arthur’s case. He had looked torn apart from the inside for a long time. It shows up on him obviously.

Worry litters Antonio’s face as he sips at his wine, watching as Francis scraps the vegetables from chopping-board to the pan.

“He’s getting better here. Trust me, Antonio.”

“I’ve always trusted you, Francis.” He replies honestly.

“I was angry at him for a while. I didn’t understand it. I still don’t… not really.”

Antonio gives a small smile, it’s nothing like his all-encompassing one but Francis feels that it is enough. He doesn’t feel that he needs cigarettes when Antonio is around; something in his company keeps him in a state of ease that he doesn’t manage with many others. It’s enough to settle the nerves that are beginning to build in his chest.

“Will he be okay, Toni?”

“I think so. If not in another month then another after that, when I invite him to stay with me.”

Francis laughs because he hears the honesty in Antonio’s voice. He imagines, for a moment, that they could keep Arthur away until it’s all over. It’s unrealistic but the thought makes him happy.

“I’m not stopping by to scrape you off the floor when he becomes well enough to fight back.”

Antonio laughs in reply.

.

Francis wakes up knowing that Arthur is better; he doesn’t know if it’s intuition or something in the air. He just knows and takes a few moments to enjoy the wave of relief that comes with it before he swings his legs off of the bed and gets ready for his day.

He finds Arthur sitting in the garden, cigarette between his fingers and cup of tea in his hands. His eyes are icy while he is lost in thought. The fatigue is gone from his face. As Francis greets him, the harshness of his features softens slightly.

He doesn’t tell him that he isn’t angry with him anymore. With the summer sunlight playing off his face and the smoke crawling from his gentle smile, Francis knows that it’s not the right time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] House Guest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25088494) by [GwenChan Pods (GwenChan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan%20Pods)




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